


Victoria in New York

by glinda4thegood



Series: Victoria Winslow/Ivan Simanov Series [2]
Category: James Bond - Ian Fleming, RED (2010)
Genre: 007, Crossover, F/M, Romance, Spy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:03:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/173705">Hidden Assets</a> September 1970, six months after Victoria and Ivan meet in Paris, Victoria is sent on a mission to New York to untangle an English woman from a relationship with a Russian attache to the U.N. For two golden autumn weeks in New York, Victoria spends nights with Ivan, in spite of the object lesson she must face daily. A romantic interlude with sex, baking, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., dinner with James Bond, one non-fatal shooting, and three executions. Cross w/Fleming short story: 007 in New York. (Thanks to G for the help!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 9, 1970**

“Miss Winslow.”

“Sir.” Standing at something resembling attention, Victoria studied M across the gleaming mahogany desk. Although this was the first time she had been required to physically present herself in his offices, M’s control and influence was a force that made her feel as if his eyes were on her nearly every moment of her daily life. There wasn’t much casual gossip in the lower ranks about M, but there was a great deal of curiosity about the man who personified MI6.

His office painted a portrait of an iconic, traditional, masculine occupant. As she entered the rarefied space, Victoria made a quick assessment of the wooden chairs with green leather padding, gilt-framed naval-themed paintings on the walls, simple green-shaded reading lamp, and rather unattractive flesh-beige telephone.

“Sit down.” M’s sharp eyes dissected her as she walked over the short expanse of green carpet. When Victoria took a seat, perched on the edge of one of the padded chairs, he opened a folder and began to leaf through its contents.

“Chief Tanner reports your mission in Paris went well. Not only did you achieve your primary objective, but you arranged for your own return home.”

“I understand my post-mission contact was unable to meet me due to an unfortunate accident. Return to London was not a problem.” 

That bit of finagling had been a learning experience. 

Even short-handed, MI6 had not let a fledgling operative go into the field without an observer close at hand. Leaving her hotel 2.75 hours too long after Braun’s retirement, Victoria found her exit contact mysteriously absent. The absence was a relief -- until during her post-mission interview Chief of Staff Tanner casually mentioned that her unseen back-up had fallen victim to a common Paris footpad, shortly after observing Braun entering the hotel.

Victoria rather thought she knew the identity of the footpad. 

M skewered her with a penetrating stare, then returned to the folder. “You’ve never been to the United States.”

“No, sir. I have not. I’m sure you know that.” Victoria attempted to relax the tension in her shoulders by leaning slightly forward. America. She hoped the curiosity and excitement that M’s question woke in her was not visible on her face. Such an assignment would be welcome change from her present routine. And if M was giving her instructions, personally, this mission would be something out of the ordinary.

M closed the folder and stared off into space, somewhere past Victoria’s left ear. “Have you met Commander Bond?”

He would know the answer to that question, as he knew exactly where she had been for the last 10 years -- or more. It would be a rare moment, Victoria reflected, that M would ask a question to which he didn’t already possess the answer.

“No, sir. I have seen him at various social functions. I am aware of his reputation.”

“Which reputation?” The question carried a hint of disapprobation. M’s focus moved, briefly, from outer space to her forehead.

Victoria chose her words with care, smiling a little at the mental picture she kept on file of the dark, aggressively masculine MI6 agent with the larger-than-life reputation for successful fieldwork, assorted mayhem, and sexcapades. “Commander Bond is one of our best, although hardly one of our least inconspicuous, agents.”

“Indeed.” M eyed her speculatively. “For a young agent, you have begun to build a solid, inconspicuous reputation. You know there are few women in our ranks with your skill set. Commander Bond was sent to New York on a, let us say, diplomatic intervention. The particulars will be made available to you, in Miss Moneypenny’s office. Commander Bond was unable to successfully resolve the situation, and now his services have been requested by the Americans for another mission.”

“Does the brief specify what outcome you wish me to achieve?” So far, M’s description of the situation sounded nothing like the type of mission for which she had been trained. Interventions her skills provided were the polar opposite of diplomatic.

“Yes. An English citizen, formerly one of our people, is now working in New York. Her lover is attached to the United Nations. He is KGB.”

A frisson of sympathy involuntarily tightened Victoria’s stomach muscles. “Does she know?”

“Commander Bond reports that she does not believe this is true. He communicated our concerns to her, providing the young man’s background. She was not receptive. Bond will brief you on her response. The relationship is ongoing. The relationship must be terminated. You will see from the dossier where her family connections lead.”

“Terminated.” Victoria met M’s eyes squarely, and found cold assessment and acknowledgment of the permission the single word conveyed. “More specifically?”

“The original plan was to let her remain in America. Now it seems best that she resign her position, and return home. If she doesn’t comply, you will kill the lover. Have a good trip, Miss Winslow.”

Victoria nodded acknowledgement and stood, wondering why she felt like dropping into a curtsey. “Thank you, sir.”

 

**THURSDAY, SEPT. 10**

Victoria found she could not sleep on the plane. 

Analyzing her continued restless wakefulness, she came to the conclusion there were too many people, in too close proximity, for her to feel safe enough to sleep. She spent most of the flight reading a guidebook describing some of the landmarks on New York’s historic register.

Victoria Brown was the name on her passport, occupation described as merchant. Her legend, if one should be needed, detailed the life of a small London antiques shop owner who was interested in the work of Louis Comfort Tiffany, and American arts and crafts artists.

It had been six months since her job in Paris, six months since an inexplicable lapse in judgment had ended in a few hours of passion with a KBG agent. Now, Victoria was being sent to tell another young English woman to end just such a relationship. Or end the life of her lover.

Victoria’s first thought, that it seemed strange to send an agent of Commander Bond’s stature on such an errand, evaporated when the contents of the dossier revealed the identity of Rose Smythe’s grandparents. It would be like finding gold in a dustbin, if tabloid journos got wind of such a story.

When the Flight Captain announced they were twenty minutes from landing, Victoria put aside the guidebook and stared out of the lozenge-shaped window next to her seat into the golden light of a fine September morning. America revealed itself as a ripple of mist where ocean met earth, then rushed to carpet the path of the BOAC 707 with a heavily urban landscape that still retained pockets of variegated forest.

Idlewild came and went, the tedious process of entering the country hardly noticed as Victoria evaulated the crowd, recording physical mannerisms and the way Americans spoke to each other. She was traveling with a single piece of luggage, so once through customs she moved quickly outside to find a taxicab.

The taxi driver talked non-stop, firing off questions with a heavy accent Victoria eventually identified as peculiar to New York natives. Since he tended to answer his own questions with assumptions, she had to contribute little to the conversation. Instead, she concentrated on the buildings and crowds flowing past the cab window. Victoria’s growing sampler of big cities had convinced her that every city – London, Stockholm, Paris – each had their own frequency and flavor, color and dominant smell. Big cities strutted like peacocks, sang, shrieked and aggressively displayed their best landmarks and elements. Big cities . . . vibrated.

Victoria knew it was unprofessionally fanciful to make this kind of judgment, but already New York’s vibrations seemed more compex and tumultuous than any other city in her internal atlas.

“Yo! Miss! We’re here!”

Eyeing the staid brick building front, Victoria paid and tipped the driver with a smile.

A small man with a tiny, groomed mustache greeted her in the reception area of the British Consulate.

“Miss Brown? Barry Giles. So pleased to make your acquaintance.” Barry dithered for a moment before clasping her hand in a firm handshake. “You’ll be dying for a cup of tea.” He led the way to a comfortable, almost intimate room with deep leather chairs, a spacious leather sofa, and tall windows that spilled amber light onto a vibrantly orange oriental carpet. He pointed to an ornately carved oak door. “There’s a place to freshen up, as well. I’ll have tea brought in.”

Victoria washed her face and hands, patting cold water into her cheeks until they were pink. Her hair was the better for a brushing, but the new, shorter cut made it easy to care for. Or fit under a wig. Victoria turned away from the mirror and dried her hands. Taking inventory, she felt a bit tired, extremely thirsty, and determined to focus on mission success.

When she opened the door back into the sitting room, the silhouette of a man turned away from the argent window.

“Miss Winslow? James Bond.” He too two steps away from the light, and extended his hand.

Just the hint of a Scottish burr turned those few words into a poem. Victoria accepted the strong, casual grip of his hand for a brief moment, finding herself amused when his eyes traveled over her, head to toe, lingering on her breasts and hips. “A pleasure, Commander Bond.”  


“Indeed. I hope the distaff side of our firm can bring something new to this situation.” Bond raised his eyebrows, the asymmetrical tilt of his lips giving the impression of wry, saturnine amusement.

Not a particularly nice expression, Victoria thought, with deep appreciation. She let her eyes slide past Bond to the tea tray, which had been placed on a table in front of the couch.

“Shall I pour for you?” She sat in one of the armchairs, hands poised over the teapot.

“No thank you. But you go ahead. Mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all.” Victoria filled her cup, stirred in a small drip of cream. She watched him light a cigarette, then settle easily onto the couch, leaning a bit forward nearer the ashtray.

_Bond. James Bond._

The first time he had been pointed out to her, Victoria’s initial thought was that Bond looked exactly the way she would imagine a human weapon would look. The dark, sharply masculine features, and lean athlete’s build seemed to prevent people -- especially women -- from noticing the lack of warmth in his grey-blue eyes. She had been struck then, was struck now, by the calculation at the core of his personality. Victoria sipped tea and waited.

“You have the background information. I spoke with Miss Smythe two days ago. She flatly refused to believe what I told her, or end the relationship. She threatened to kill herself if we interfered in any way.” Bond drew a lungful of smoke, then exhaled slowly. “I have to be away from New York for several days on another matter. M said you would expedite her return to England.”

“That is in within my remit. She will need to give a traditional two-week notice to her employer. My instructions are to make her return home look as natural and normal as possible.” Victoria added a bit more tea to her cup. It was very good, and she had heard good tea was difficult to find in America. “She will give notice tomorrow, and book a flight for Friday, the 25th. I will fly out at the same time.”

“Very good. I’ll check in with you when my current business is done. I’m at the Astor, under the name of David Barlow. I understand they’ve found you a rather less upscale, but nice, apartment.” Bond stubbed out his cigarette and stood. “You haven’t been here before? I’d like to take you out to dinner, if there’s time. It’s a grand city. New York has nearly everything.”

“Thank you, Commander Bond.” Victoria stood. She met his eyes, nodded with a polite smile. While it might be interesting to get to know him better, she had no intention of becoming yet another in a long queue of Bond conquests. For many reasons. “If there’s time.”

His forehead creased into a brief frown, then he smiled a hard-edged, seductive, charming smile. “I look forward to it. Anything else you need, Mr. Giles can provide.”

 

Mr. Giles was a most efficient aide.

Victoria drank more tea and ate a few biscuits while he arranged for one of her travel creased shirts and skirts to be pressed. After she changed, he escorted her to a side entrance, providing living arrangement details and how to summon a car when needed. 

"Anything else, call me directly." He pressed a small card into her hand before he opened the door of the dark blue sedan. "Miss Smythe usually leaves work at 5:15. Herbert will be your driver while you're here."

Herbert was a large, bony, elderly man with ferocious eyebrows and mild blue eyes. "Glad to be of service, Miss Brown. Do y'mind if I listen to the radio? I'll keep it low. If you have questions I'll still hear."

"Please do. If I nod off, wake me when we get there."

He chose a classical music station that created the illusion of serene isolation even as they moved through traffic. Victoria found herself enfolded by luxurious, seductively comfortable leather upholstery. She yawned, shivering down to her bones. Whatever her accommodations tonight, she would sleep well. Far better, she was sure, than Rose Smythe would sleep. 

Bond said she had threatened suicide, but Rose's dossier was that of a diligent, sober, resourceful young woman, commended by officers who expressed regret when she chose not to continue her service career. Somehow these facts seemed at odds with each other. Victoria knew the psychology of the situation was beyond her experience; in extreme circumstances self-sacrifice could be understandable. But ending one's life because of separation from one's "love"? The threat seemed weak, manipulative and essentially unbalanced. 

_A dossier will only give you dry facts. Best evaluation of your subject is achieved through direct observation._ Lectures weighted with textbook-grade instructions swam in her subconscious, bobbing to the surface like tradecraft fortune cookies. _The art of seduction relies as much on emotional manipulation as it does on physical conditioning._

In the months following her first solo assignment in Paris, Victoria had spent hours analyzing her own behavior. This introspection had resulted in the formulation of a self-interrogation routine. _Why am I here? What am I expected to accomplish? Am I sure I understand mission parameters and objectives? If I take this action, am I prepared to defend it to others?_

While acknowledging there was _always_ going to be a larger set of intangible and obscure responses to these questions -- indeed, there were collateral questions she was beginning to understand should _not_ be asked unless one was prepared for fairly devastating answers -- Victoria found in the present situation that her first two questions had obvious, simple answers. M had mandated Rose Smythe's return to England. Victoria would see Rose Smythe returned to England. 

Herbert pulled the car into a temporary parking spot in front of a brutally utilitarian commercial structure, unornamented grey concrete and glass looming overhead like a Cubist stormcloud. Victoria checked her watch. It was 5 o'clock.

"Good timing. Can you wait here for 20 minutes?"

"Embassy plates," Herbert smiled. "No problem."

A few people moved purposefully through the lobby. Victoria consulted the wall plaque directory, then took the lift to the third floor. The office seemed a mirror of the building exterior, gunmetal gray, neutral beige and chrome surfaces under fluorescent lighting. She walked toward the dark, sprawling reception counter and the fair-haired woman who was just ending a telephone call.

"Hello. May I help you?" Rose Smythe spoke with a brisk, impersonal receptionist's voice. "Our offices will be closing in a few minutes."

"My name is Victoria Brown. I'm a friend of your grandmother's, and I'd like to take you to dinner."

The woman's face, already naturally pale, turned milk white. "My grandmother?" she whispered.

"I'll wait while you finish your shift." Victoria took one of the chairs across from the desk, crossed her legs, and thoughtfully did not watch Rose fumble around in agitation.

They walked to the lift without speaking. When the doors closed, Rose turned to face her. "There's no need for this," she said flatly. "I'm not changing my mind."

Victoria nodded and smiled. When they exited the building, Victoria gestured at the waiting sedan. "I may not look dangerous to you, Miss Smythe, but you will get into the car without delay, or I will place you there."

Rose took a half step backward, paused, then stepped past Victoria, opened the car's back door and slid across the seat to the far window.

"Herbert. I'd like to look at some of those gloriously colored trees I glimpsed as the plane landed. Is there somewhere close we can go, and also get a bite to eat?"

"It's a bit of a drive, but I know a place."

Rose fidgeted as they drove. She played with her purse strap, opened her compact and checked her reflection. She shifted her legs and feet until Victoria wanted to reach over and put a restraining hand on her knee. Rose opened her mouth several times but, glancing at Herbert's back, shut it again with a mutinous, stubborn expression.

In less than thirty minutes the car pulled into a small parking lot facing what looked like a park. The trees glowed in the late afternoon sunshine, brilliant shades of orange, yellow and crimson intensified by oblique rays of light.

"There's a little restaurant a short walk away," Herbert pointed. "They cook plain, good food."

"Why don't you go," Victoria said. "We'll sit here for a while. Give us three-quarters of an hour."

Herbert met her eyes in the rear view mirror. He removed the car keys and handed them to her. He hadn't taken three steps away from the car before Rose rushed into furious disclaimer. 

"It's not true, none of it's true, and I'm not breaking it off. I love Alex. He loves me. We're going to get married. Grandmother has no right to dictate how I live my life."

"Rose. Take a breath. Do you know who Commander Bond is?" Victoria asked. "You were service. You must have heard of him."

"Yes." Rose pressed one hand to the space above her breasts. Her eyes fell away as her breathing hitched, then slowed. "He's with Six. He's ... notorious."

"Do you think they would have sent Commander Bond if the concerns about Alexei weren't true, if they weren't deadly serious?"

"They made a mistake," Rose insisted. "Everyone from that part of the world has dubious connections and acquaintances. Alex is nothing but a translator and secretary. He isn't interested in politics. I love him, and he loves me." She said the last words as if they explained the mysteries of the universe. As if they were impenetrable armor against any accusation or innuendo. 

Victoria shook her head, a slow gesture of negation. "Aleksei Kuznetsov is currently identified by both your government and the American government as an agent of the KGB. He appears to be a singularly amoral young man, willing to sell information to the Americans as readily as he is willing to pass it back to Moscow. I'm not as well known as Commander Bond, Rose. They don't send me places to carry diplomatic messages, or gently persuade people to do things. They send me places to kill people."

Rose stared at her, mouth open. "You? You're going to kill me?"

"Don't be stupid. Your grandmother would be very unhappy." No need to include the fact it was only her second such assignment. It was obvious Victoria's statement had made a significant impact on Rose.

"Alex?" Rose's voice rose into a wail. "You're going to kill Alex?"

"Please stop that." Victoria winced at the volume and tone of Rose's question. "Tonight you will write a letter to your employers giving two weeks notice of termination of employment, citing family concerns in England. You will deliver that letter tomorrow. During the day, you will book a flight for Friday, Sept. 25th. Tonight you will call Aleksei, and arrange to meet him tomorrow morning. I'lll keep that appointment, and explain why he will never again contact you. This weekend we will begin to pack the contents of your flat. In every instance you will cooperate fully." 

Rose pulled a tissue from her purse, pressed it to her eyes. "If I don't," she whispered. "You'll kill him."

"Yes. And I don't allow for do overs, Rose. If you deviate from my instructions, the repercussions will be immediate and unpleasant, both here and when you get home." Victoria watched her face. Rebellion flared for only a moment, then drained away leaving heartbroken resignation. It was a start. Rose wasn't a strong person, although she could still pose problems if Kuznetsov tried to interfere with the programme. 

"I'll kill myself." Breathless drama. Tissue pressed to her nose, Rose met and held Victoria's eyes.

"Nonsense." Victoria dismissed the threat briskly. "You'll live. Do you want me to tell you how many American women Kuznetsov has slept with while he's been here?" Four of whom had been during the time he was sleeping with Rose, although Victoria was reluctant to mention the infidelity. It would probably only make her more defensive, and disinclined to believe what she had been told.

"I know there have been others in the past," Rose said, her voice rising dramatically. "I don't need details."

"Wise choice. Do I have your promise of cooperation?"

Rose squeezed her eyes shut, her hands into fists. When she opened her eyes again only grief was obvious. "Yes. Don't kill him. I'll return home without a fuss."

 

They drove Rose to her apartment. Victoria went up with her while Herbert, who had returned smelling of toast and grilled meat, waited patiently in the driver's seat. 

The apartment was roomy and clean, with piles of cushions on the hardwood floor and a solid wall of gramophone records and books. Victoria made a swift appraisal of the matted and framed watercolors on the walls, the jewel tones of the heavy, jacquard woven draperies. This was more than a short-term place to eat and sleep. It was Rose's home, with pieces of Rose scattered throughout.

Rose blew her nose, sniffed a bit, then dialed the phone. She kept her eyes closed as she spoke. 

_A family friend would be spending the night with her. She would call in ill tomorrow, and meet him at their coffee shop at 10 o'clock. No, everything was fine, she just had a touch of allergy to leaf mould in the air. Yes, she loved him too, and would see him tomorrow._

After hanging up the phone, it took another half hour for Rose to stop crying and give Victoria directions to the coffee shop.

"Call this number if you need to speak with me." Victoria gave her Gile's card. "Stay in your flat until you go to work tomorrow. Don't phone Alexei again. Your actions are under observation, you know what that means."

Rose shook her head, blinking against tear-clumped lashes. "You don't look like a killer, but your eyes are just like grandmother's. And _she's_ capable of anything. I'll write my resignation, then take a couple of pills and go to bed. I hope someday you love someone as much as I love Alex, and have him ripped out of your life."

Back in the car, Victoria wondered if she should spend the night with Rose, then decided to let the situation play out. They would be in New York for another two weeks. It would be best if Rose understood she was responsible for her own behavior.

"You must be hungry, Miss Brown." Herbert's voice broke into her reverie. "We're getting close to your lodgings. I understand you have a stocked kitchen, but I can take you to a restaurant. You won't want to cook after that long flight."

"I'll find something at the apartment. I need sleep more than food right now. I have an appointment tomorrow morning at 10 o'clock." She gave him the address.

"I'll pick up you at 9:30, Miss Brown. Sleep well." Herbert left her at the front door. 

A black doorman smiled and greeted her with a pleasant bass rumble. "Miss Brown? I'm Ben, I work nights. Got your key here. Mr. Giles said, anything you need, just ask me or Fred. Fred's here days. You're on the second floor."

Victoria took the key. "Thank you, Ben."

The apartment was generic, and reminded Victoria of a spacious hotel suite. The refrigerator in the small kitchen contained milk, eggs, butter and cheese. She poured herself a half glass of milk, then left the kitchen without further exploration of the cupboards. 

In the bedroom, Victoria found the contents of her suitcase had been placed in closet and drawers, and her few bath things arranged on the vanity. She filled the bathtub and submerged, washing the scent of too many people in too close a space out of her hair, off her skin. Floating in warmth and silence, travel fatigue rolled over her in a wave. Victoria pulled herself out of the water just before she fell asleep. With hair and skin still damp, she turned down the covers on the king-size bed and crawled, naked, under the sheet.

She was asleep almost instantly.

 

**FRIDAY, SEPT. 11**

Herbert left her down the street from the coffee shop at 9:55. "When should I pick you up, Miss?"

Victoria looked up and down the street. There were a fair number of people about, walking with purposeful morning energy. "I can find my own way back, Herbert. I would like to return to Miss Smythe's flat later this afternoon, about 5 o'clock."

The air was an exhilarating mix of cool and warm breezes, full of mostly pleasant odors.The strong smell of coffee and cinnamon filled her lungs as she approached the shop. 

_A small booth at the back,_ Rose had said. _There's a huge ficus benjamina._

VIctoria stepped inside, and immediately found the plant, a monster that screened nearly an entire window. A man's broad back was visible through the leaves, and a head of thick, dark auburn hair. Victoria's hand flexed around her now heavier purse. The embassy had left a Walther PPK in one of the bedroom drawers, along with other useful things that could complicate one's life going through customs. 

She walked at an angle toward the back of the room, not wanting to approach the man from the rear. When she got her first clear look at his profile Victoria's progress faltered. _It wasn't possible._ But there he was, waiting in the seat Rose's lover was to occupy. 

One deep breath and she continued toward the booth. "Excuse me. I'm supposed to meet Aleksei Kuznetsov?"

His face was totally unguarded when he saw her, his surprise as intense as hers. It made Victoria feel better somehow, to know their meeting -- probably -- hadn't been deliberate.

"I represent Aleksei. I am Ivan Simanov." He slid from the booth to stand facing her. "Miss --?"

"Brown. Victoria Brown." She extended her hand automatically, thinking he looked very businesslike in the well-cut suit of dark grey fabric. Thinking his neatly trimmed beard and mustache accentuated the shape of his mouth and softened the cleft in his chin.

Ivan took her hand. "Miss Brown."

Victoria extracted her fingers quickly and slid into the booth, determined to ignore inconvenient physical reactions. She could feel the surge of pulse in her wrist when she clasped her hands together. A distressingly pleasant pressure throbbed between her legs. "Will Mr. Kuznetsov be attending this meeting as well?"

Ivan resumed his seat, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, no. Mr. Kuznetsov has found it necessary to return home unexpectedly." His eyes held hers. "A family matter. I was to give Miss Smythe his apologies."

"What a remarkable coincidence. Miss Smythe finds herself in a similar situation." Victoria had nearly convinced herself that no one had eyes as blue as the man in her memory. She let her focus slide from his eyes to mustache and beard. Appallingly, her Lexicon of Experience abruptly flipped to a bookmarked page containing a graphic image of that mouth between her legs. 

"Would you like menus?" A waitress placed glasses of ice water before them and offered oversized printed cardboard lists.

"I would like coffee only," Ivan said. "Miss Brown?"

"Just coffee, thank you." Victoria drank several swallows of water, grateful for the cooling sensation that spread down her throat and pooled in her stomach. When the waitress departed, she asked, "Do you work with Aleksei, Mr. Simanov?"

"Please, Ivan." His eyes crinkled into laughter. "We should be on a first name basis."

"Then I am Victoria." She tried for a repressive tone of voice, and saw the laughter spread from his eyes to quirk the corner of his mouth.

_I know._

"Vic-to-ria." Ivan drew the syllables out. "I do not work with Aleksei. I am here only temporarily." 

The waitress returned with coffee. It was good coffee, dark and fragrant. The rush of caffeine jazzed through Victoria's body, raising a fine sheen of dampness on skin, and an undefined sense of urgency in muscle and bone.

"And you? Do you work with Miss Smythe?" 

"I'm a friend of the family, here to help pack the contents of her flat." Coffee had been a mistake. Victoria pushed her cup away, dabbed a napkin over her upper lip and mouth. "Miss Smythe is returning to England."

"I see." Ivan glanced at her purse, then deliberately at her breasts.

She knew what had drawn his attention. Her nipples were as hard as stones, and probably quite visible under the limp cotton blouse. Victoria tried to push her shoulders forward and ease the fabric away from her breasts.

Ivan raised his hand to smooth a corner of his mustache, grinning widely. "Too late," he said. "Too late for them to say farewell, then. Just as well. Aleksei has a wife and family at home. It seems his behavior with Miss Smythe has not been what we expect from our employees."

Wife? That hadn't been in the dossier, but didn't surprise her. Victoria nodded, still foolishly hunched as she reached for her purse. "Thank you for sharing this information."

Ivan's hand shot across the table, closing around her fingers before she could extract her money. His thumb curled under and stroked against her wrist in a small, rotating motion. "I will pay for the coffee."

Raw physical awareness of him burned through her skin, followed by the giddy desire to move his fingers to her nipple. Victoria heard herself make a noise which she tried to turn into a cough. "Sorry. Bit of dust. Thank you," she babbled. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Simanov."

"Ivan." He released her hand, looking as stunned as she felt.

Victoria made her way out to the street, chose a direction at random, and began to walk.

 

She wandered into a few stores, bought a few things, then eventually found a taxicab and returned to the apartment. Fred greeted her with a grin and a nod. 

Victoria stored the groceries in the cupboard and refrigerator, drank a glass of water and checked the time. A few minutes before noon. Her stomach growled, and it occurred to her that at least part of the emptiness she felt was from lack of food. She peeled one of the oranges she had purchased and ate it slowly, sucking the juice from each section before chewing.

12:15.

Indecently brilliant sunshine burned the living room's beige walls to white. Victoria pulled the drapes closed and found there was still sufficient light not to need a lamp. She pushed off her shoes, curled into an armchair and closed her eyes. Walking had helped ease body and mind toward precarious serenity. Toward precarious sanity.

 _Ivan Simanov._ His name invoked a cascade of sensory memory: Sense of accomplishment in completing a mission for Queen and Country. Heat of ice cold vodka in an empty stomach. Savor of caviar. Heady lust for a dangerous man. And, in touching skin to skin, touching something that was more dangerous than difference in nationality or political conviction.

_I will see you again._

In spite of his words to her when they parted in Paris six months ago, Victoria had not believed she would ever see him again.

The telephone rang, bringing Victoria convulsively to her feet. "Victoria Brown here."

"Hallo Miss Brown. Barry Giles here. Are you finding everything you need?"

He had no idea. Victoria took a deep breath. "Yes, thank you. Herbert is a gem. I've asked him to drive me to Miss Smythe's apartment later this afternoon. Her friend has been recalled home, to his wife and family. Will Herbert be able to help us arrange to ship the contents of her flat?"

"Of course. Nicely managed, Miss Brown." Barry Giles sounded pleased. "Our Herbert is a very useful fellow. I understand you're interested in architecture. He'd be glad to take you touring about. It seems you might have a few free days here before your flight home."

"I'll keep that in mind."

When Victoria hung up the phone, the clock said 12:30. It was another half hour before a quiet knock brought her to the door.

"You're insane."

Ivan shut the door behind him with one hand, gathered her against him with the other. 

"Lock the door," she gasped between kisses. The mustache brushed pleasantly down the side of her neck. "If this apartment is wired ..."

"It is not." Ivan's arms went under her legs. He lifted her effortlessly. "It is rarely used, temporary housing or occasional safehouse. No need to waste their resources with surveillance on you."

"I was told to kill him if she refused to end the relationship. What do you think they would say about _you_? About us?" 

Cool air teased Victoria's naked skin as his fingers worked. Blouse and skirt, bra, tights and panties disappeared without her assistance. His hands were everywhere, on her breasts and stomach. On her thighs. Between her legs. She wanted to rub herself against the heat and scent of his skin, wanted to feel the vibration of his low voice speaking incomprehensible syllables against her neck. 

"Ivan." His name was greeting and demand. Proclamation of desire. Protest. "I don't know you."

"Shh. You know me more than you may realize." He placed her on the bed and began to undress. " _A woman, a pale and a fair one, cried down from her tower "Farewell!" Her voice has the sound of faint weeping, So amorous, tender and sweet - As if she in love's holy rapture did promise of meeting repeat._ "

Victoria propped herself up on her elbows and tried to glare at him. "You _are _insane. Weeping? Do you want me to shoot you?"__

__"Russian poetry." Ivan dropped his trousers, a self-righteous expression on his face accentuated by the heavenward roll of his eyes. "You are my Siren. My Lorelei." He lowered his eyes to her breasts. "The rocks upon which I will be wrecked."__

Naked, he looked as she remembered from their encounter in Paris. Strong and sturdy. But he'd acquired a farmer's tan on his forearms. The skin on his chest was still nearly as pale as hers, contrast to the line of fine, dark hair that traveled downward, past his navel. "Oh. For God's sake, do shut up and come to bed." 

__Ivan removed a foil packet from his pile of clothing. "I regret this, but they may send a housekeeper in on weekends."_ _

__Victoria watched him apply the condom with her own sense of regret, a feeling immediately overwhelmed by anticipation. His skin broadcast a wave of heat as he lowered himself onto her body. When he entered her slowly, tentatively, Victoria met the motion with a decidedly untentative arch of her hips. Memory and reality merged with his physical presence, with the slightly smoky smell of his hair. He felt . . ._ _

__"Good. Is so good." Ivan's mustache and tongue tickled the skin below her ear. "Victoria."_ _

__"Bloody hell." Her hands slid up his back to settle just under his shoulder bones. She rocked her pelvis against him, sending sensation like heat lightning sparking through nerve tissue. "No more talking. Do you mind doing that very hard, and very fast?"_ _

__Ivan didn't waste breath answering. Victoria tried to keep her eyes open, tried to watch the changes in his face as his strokes became faster and shallower, as his breathing changed. He worked for his own release, but didn't forget he had a partner in the exercise -- still a novelty in Victoria's admittedly limited experience. His mouth and fingers were busy on her body stroking, coaxing until, shuddering, he stopped moving for a moment._ _

__"How close are you? I am going to finish . . ."_ _

__It was such a thoughtful, sensually charged moment that Victoria's body clenched against him, her eyelids clamping shut in spite of her efforts to hold them open. The abstract fireworks filling the darkness made her imagine what it might be like to watch an orgasm have an orgasm._ _

__"Ah." Ivan resumed moving against her, frantic and hard._ _

__She felt the alteration in his body as he finished, heard him say something she didn't understand in Russian. Ivan slipped from her body and rolled off the bed. She heard the toilet flush, then he was back with her._ _

__"That's better. Move over." He piled the pillows into a mound, settled next to her and hugged her against his body. "Your hair is shorter. You look beautiful. When your nipples hardened in the restaurant, I wished to pin you against the wall and have you there."_ _

__"We can't keep doing this." Unnecessary to tell him how many ways, and in how many places she had imagined them having sex. Victoria traced his ribs, the muscles around his nipples. He smelled of the same things she remembered from Paris; tobacco smoke, musk of salt and sweat, and a light, almost unscented soap from his hair. He felt familiar and comfortable against her body. She pictured him lying dead with a bullet hole in his skull and shivered._ _

__"Is always good to anticipate trouble." Ivan's chest shook with silent laughter. "But this encounter is result of serendipity, not habit or intent. Let me tell you what I have learned since you left me in the restaurant. You need say nothing in response." He outlined the tip of one breast, bringing it to a hard, aching point. "I know Commander Bond arrived before you did, to speak with Miss Smythe. I know he is currently off on another errand with Felix Leiter for the CIA. I know that when Bond returns to New York, it will be even more dangerous to see you. He has at least one woman here, but Commander Bond is not known for concentrating his attentions on one woman. I understand he has asked you out to dinner when he returns. Do you find him attractive?"_ _

__"How could you possibly know that?" Victoria pushed herself up to look into his face. "We were alone. No. I don't want to know."_ _

__"And?"_ _

__"If I do have dinner with him, it won't end in the bedroom," she said. "You are a very irritating man. I have to be downstairs at 4:15. A consulate driver is picking me up."_ _

"I know, _milaya_." Ivan's arms tightened around her. "Since Paris I have tried to think of a way for us to be together. There has been no other woman in my eyes, bed or heart." 

The rough planes of his face were composed into an expression of wistful melancholy that managed to make him seem wholly masculine and brooding, and utterly desirable. 

"Paris was what the Americans call a 'one night stand.' A foolish, self-indulgent risk. We both know there are only a couple of ways we could be together for more, and one or both of us would have to change so much we would no longer be the same people." Victoria felt the truth of what she said settle like a weight against her heart. Minutes after a rather good orgasm she felt a less than polite demand from the space between her legs. "Let me go." 

"Little pessimist. The last time you demanded something of me, your gun was in your hand." He was laughing at her, twining his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, gently forcing her face up for a lingering kiss. "I cannot let you go. Give me this time in New York, as much as you can. We will be careful, and smart. But we will be together. Afterwards, if I must . . ." 

Her gun. She'd waited for him without once thinking of the consulate-supplied weapon. "Have you considered I might have to shoot you if this _serendipity_ continues to occur? I could easily have shot you in Paris." Victoria took his hand, kissed the tips of his fingers, then moved his fingers to her mons. 

"You present a complicated, and contradictory risk assessment. If I am to be shot, I would rather it be by you, _zaichik moy_. You are very precise." The hand that wasn't stroking her clitoris cupped a breast. "My Victoria. Let me get another condom." 

 

Rose was pink and splotchy, her eyes and nose raw. "I tried to call Alex," she said, as soon as Victoria stepped into the apartment. "He's gone. Did you see him this morning?"

"No." Victoria looked at the heap of used tissue next to an armchair. "They sent someone else. He was going to tell you Aleksei had been transferred home."

"I don't believe it." Rose's color deepened to something verging on purple. "He'd never leave without saying goodbye, without telling me himself."

"I think explaining about his wife and family would have been awkward for him."

"Oh. You bitch." Rose picked up the nearest thing, a table lamp, and threw it.

"One less item to pack. It's not my fault, but it makes you feel better to be mad at me," Victoria said practically, "then I can live with your dislike. They'll deliver the first boxes tomorrow morning. Pack whatever you won't need for the next few days of work. I can help."

"I don't need your help, and I'd rather not see you again." Rose stared at the fragments of ceramic littering the floor. "Go away."

"Tomorrow, then." Victoria left quickly. She felt no sympathy or connection to the woman in spite of some small similarity in their choice of lover.

Herbert looked up, startled as she opened the car door. "That was quick, Miss Brown."

"She needs to be alone. Take me to the consulate, please. Then, on the way to the apartment, I'd like to buy a few more groceries and some wine."

 

Victoria chopped the chicken into pieces quickly and efficiently, with the very sharp knife from the set of very sharp knives in her kitchen. Her stomach had made embarrassing noises at the consulate, bringing a sideways look from Barry Giles.

"You really must let Herbert recommend a restaurant," he said as she left.

"Herbert is taking me to find groceries. I enjoy cooking, when I have time."

She liked making pastries best, liked the precision required to produce flaky perfection. It took all her concentration, all her focus, kept her from thinking about other things. Tonight it would be chicken, vegetables and herbs, and brown rice. Victoria washed her hands and ate a raw carrot, hearing her stomach complain again.

The chicken went into one of two casserole pots, layered with wine, olive oil, mushrooms, carrots, celery, onion, garlic, and the few fresh herbs she had found at the grocer's. This pot went into the oven. In a saucepan on the stove she boiled water, added the brown rice, stirred and covered the pan, turning off the burner.

Simple, quick. Victoria poured herself a glass of the wine and went into the living room.

She had called London from the consulate secure phone. Her brief, but complete report was followed by the question -- now that Kuznetsov was out of the picture, should she return to London, or continue as planned and fly out with Rose? The answer from HQ was decisive. Keep an eye on the woman, leave New York when she did.

It was an answer Victoria had both hoped for, and dreaded. She would have two weeks in New York, the longest she had ever been in any one location on a job outside England.

She listened to the subdued hum of the building and the world outside. The memory of Herbert's classical radio station moved her to get up and investigate behind the doors of the tall shelves against one wall. A television was hidden behind wooden doors, and a combination gramophone and radio. Victoria turned on the radio, moved the dial until she found a station that featured jazz.

The wine, taken on an empty stomach and one carrot, produced a pleasant sense of euphoria. Victoria returned to the kitchen, dumped the rice into the second casserole, tossed in a couple of chunks of unsalted butter, an egg and a dollop of cream, and opened the oven. Savory odors of baking chicken and rosemary filled the air as she placed the second casserole next to the first.

Victoria checked the clock. 9:30. The chicken should be done in about an hour. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the jazz.

 _Ivan Simanov._ After six months of slowly finding it easier not to think about him, she would have to begin the process all over again. But this time, she would have more to forget.

Victoria liked the air of distinction the mustache and beard added to his face, liked the current deep auburn color of his hair. She liked his expressive blue eyes, intense with quick humor or desire. Although he was a physically strong, passionate man, Victoria now knew without any doubt Ivan lacked the streak of cruelty and desire for control that so many of the men, and women, in their business possessed. He would bear pain and think it nothing. He might inflict pain if duty demanded he do so. He would never seek pain, or inflict it on another, for pleasure.

Victoria wondered what she would find in his dossier.

There was no doubt in her mind he was dangerous, professional, even though his behavior with her seemed amateurly trusting. When she evaluated him, both reason and intuition told her he would be an intelligent enemy. When she looked into the depths of his eyes she saw something both Commander Bond, and her own image when she examined herself in the mirror, lacked. Quick calculation was present in Ivan's eyes, but no coldness. There was empathy and humanity behind his decisions and actions, she thought, even the hard, brutal decisions and actions.

Victoria considered her purse on the occasional table in front of the couch, imagined reaching for the Walther tucked inside. She had first picked up a target rifle at the age of 18, after entering service. Her unsuspected natural talent for being able to _shoot the eye out of a fly_ and obsession for mastering all types of firearms had spared her a life in the ranks of women doomed to pursue more traditionally female roles. Boring roles.

It was a strange position she occupied now, halfway between agents of either sex, halfway between support and active designations. With one solo field assignment behind her, Victoria had thought this isolation might change, that she would become an active field agent. Six had other active women agents -- if they were few in number.

Her post-mission psychological evaluation had been satisfactory. She had retired a threat, taken a life her government said should be taken. There was nothing personal in the action, and the action left no uncomfortable emotional residue. Thinking over the probing questions during the psych-eval, and her answers, Victoria had begun to do a little evaluation of her own. She suspected the solo mission had been less about taking out the target than judging her actions, choices and performance. If she rated her own effectiveness, from entering Paris until the moments after taking the shot, she was golden. From Ivan's phone call inviting her to drink vodka through the next several hours of naked collaboration with the enemy -- well, Six didn't know about that, and hopefully never would.

In spite of a satisfactory evaluation, her trainers sent Victoria back to the range. She still had a lot to learn, they said: changing targets on the fly; altering orders without consultation at the highest level; when to kill for reasons other than self-defense. If was difficult for Victoria to understand how she could add abilities not yet in her skill set if she had no chance to practice those abilities.

Her mission to New York had seemed ridiculously simple, more like trial employment as an adult nanny than anything else, even though her remit included shooting her charge's boyfriend to ensure compliant behavior. With Ivan's presence in New York, in her bed, _simple_ convoluted into _complicated_ and _dangerous._

She was, Victoria told herself grimly, totally and utterly shagged seven ways from Sunday. A single, brief sexual encounter with an enemy agent would, possibly, have earned her a verbal reaming and unofficial period of scrutiny. A fortnight of fornication would surely see her career end in disgrace. And these were best scenarios.

When their liaison was discovered, and such things were always discovered, Victoria had no doubt they would tell her to kill him.

A small knock at the door seemed perfectly timed to coincide with the fatalistic end of her reflections.

Ivan was wearing a dark coverall, and carried a small duffel bag over his shoulder. He set the duffel down by the door, took her into his arms and kissed her jaw and earlobe. "Something smells delicious."

"Chicken. I'm hungry." She rested her cheek against his broad chest. "You smell like petrol."

"It is disguise. When do we eat? I brought vodka." He peeled off the coverall to reveal a white dress shirt, dark trousers, and no guns. "May I assist you in the kitchen?"

"Find plates and glasses." Victoria removed the casseroles from the oven and set them on top of the stove. She checked the chicken, and found the meat falling away from the bones. They loaded their plates standing at the stove, then sat at the small kitchen table.

"Is very good." Ivan picked out the mushrooms first. "Needs more vegetables."

"You're not wrong." She wouldn't have thought vodka a proper drink with chicken stew, but after her second glass Victoria couldn't imagine drinking anything else. "I don't have a sweet to follow."

Ivan raised his glass in a toast. "Do you not?"

"Dishes first," Victoria said.

He understood immediately. Unwise to leave evidence two people had been dining here, even for a short time. They tidied the kitchen, leaving the casseroles to finish cooling. Ivan took an orange, a saucer, the vodka and glasses into the living room.

"Come sit with me on the couch." He peeled the orange and fed her slices between glasses of vodka. "I have been thinking this afternoon of all the things I would like to do with you, and all the things we will be unable to do together. I would like to take you dancing. I would like to take you to a Broadway play, the cinema, shopping on Fifth Avenue. I would like to walk with you, arm in arm, at night to stare at lights and crowds. I would very much like to smoke a cigarette in this apartment."

"Sorry. I could take up smoking." Victoria considered the idea. "Are you trying to tell me you think fourteen nights of nothing but sex will be dull?"

Ivan captured her hand and kissed her palm. "Never. But I am greedy, and wish to experience more than sex with you."

His words created an impossible fantasy that stirred Victoria's tightly controlled, seldom used imagination. How terrible it was to contemplate he might be as great a companion and friend as he was a lover.

"Well, those things are all out of the question." She took the saucer and orange rind into the kitchen. She stored the casseroles in the refrigerator. When Victoria returned to the living room, she found he had moved the occasional table out of the way and was changing between radio stations. Jazz turned to a soft ballad.

"Come. Dance with me."

They swayed together. Victoria felt awareness between them turn to a slow, liquid heat in her arms and legs that responded to the slightest guiding touch of his hand.

"I will only take what you wish to offer me." His mustache brushed over her mouth. "Will you let me love you?"

"Stop that. You've already seduced me." Victoria took his hand and pulled him toward the bedroom. "You brought more condoms?"

Ivan pulled back on her hand, and grabbed the duffel bag. "Oh yes. Many more condoms."

 

**SATURDAY, SEPT. 12**

Ivan left the apartment at 4:30, taking everything he had brought with him away in the duffel. Victoria locked the door behind him. When she woke again, the bedside clock told her it was 7:30.

Herbert was already waiting when she left the apartment building at 9 o'clock.

"Good morning, Miss Brown. You look like you slept well, there's roses in your cheeks this morning," Herbert said. "The boxes have been delivered to Miss Smythe's apartment."

Victoria, who doubted if she had slept more than four hours in total, felt blood flush through the "roses" in her cheeks. "I'll work with Miss Smythe until 3 o'clock. Then I should do a bit more shopping. I didn't come prepared for a two week stay."

Rose was slow to answer the door. Victoria waited patiently. When the woman finally appeared, she looked even worse than the previous afternoon. She was wearing a dressing gown, her hair was lank, and her eyes were ringed with red and purple.

"Shower. Dress. I'll start in the kitchen," Victoria said.

The packing started slowly. When Rose joined her in the kitchen it was only to make a pot of tea and sit, miserably watching Victoria work. After the first half hour of silent protest, Victoria started dropping dishes, and Rose reluctantly began to help.

"Leave only what you'll need for next week. I'd suggest doing the books, records and small decorations when you're done with the kitchen." Victoria checked her watch. "Herbert will be waiting for me. I'll see you tomorrow morning. It looks like we'll need more boxes."

"I don't want you here at all. Why don't you just leave me alone?" Rose, who had said nearly nothing for the entire day, had obviously stored a lengthy amount of unvoiced umbrage. "I don't care if you _are_ one of HQ's assassins. I hate the lie of your prim, helpful face and manner. You're nothing but a bully and a thug."

"I am not, and have never been, a bully," Victoria said. "I see you have cucumbers in the cooler. Take a few moments and put cucumber slices on your eyes. It will help reduce the inflammation, and make you feel better."

"Nothing will make me feel better." Rose rubbed at her eyes and glared.

Victoria opened the apartment door, pausing before she stepped out. "You _will_ be going to work Monday morning. Do you want to look the way you do now?"

 

Saturday night in New York City.

Even though it was early, there was already an air of bustle and excitement in the traffic and crowds. Herbert left her at Macy's for two hours, and Victoria almost asked him to go away and leave her a while longer. But it would have been self-indulgent, and she wanted to return to the apartment and take a nap.

They stopped briefly at the consulate. Barry Giles promised to have more empty boxes delivered, and full boxes taken away the next day, even though it would be Sunday.

"I wish you could join us for weekend activities," he said, looking as though he meant it. "HQ says it would prefer you not to randomly mix with other diplomatic personnel."

Since she might have to stalk and kill some of them in the future, Victoria thought with only a trace of cynicism. "I understand. I have reading materials, the television and radio. Next week, when Miss Smythe has most of her packing done, I may find time to tour historic sites."

"I hope you can. HQ also asked me to share information about the Russian who met you in the coffee shop."

"Yes?" Victoria waited, listening attentively.

"Ivan Simanov often works as an illegal. He's a fixer, not part of the U.N. contingent. Apparently Kuznetsov's wife's grandfather has an office in the Kremlin." Barry Giles grinned. "How many times have you been able to thank the Russians for lending a helping hand?"

Twice, now. "Indeed. Have a pleasant weekend, Mr. Giles."

When they got to the apartment, Herbert had to help her carry the packages. She was going to need a second suitcase for the flight home.

She washed her face and took a pillow from the bed to the couch. With the radio barely audible, Victoria curled onto her side and shut her eyes.

 

The daytime glow was long gone from behind the drapes when Victoria woke.

She took a quick, hot shower. The crepe-back satin nightshirt she'd found at Macy's slid over her warmed skin, deliciously cool and soft to the touch.

Wanting vodka, she had to make shift with a heel of French bread and glass of wine. Victoria took her bread and wine back to the living room, where she turned on one of the wall sconces. She was halfway through her wine when the short knock sounded on the door.

"I like this garment," Ivan said eventually. He ran his hand over the curve of her back and buttocks. "You feel even --- _more_ , somehow. Softer. Firmer."

"Description of my body parts has gotten you into trouble before." Victoria thought the fabric intensified the feeling of his fingers against her skin. "I'm having bread and wine. There's still food from last night."

"I have eaten. I brought the sweet." From his duffel, Ivan materialized a small package. "Baklava. And vodka. And a book."

"A book?" She let him precede her into the living room, where he set his offerings on the occasional table before the couch.

"In a perfect world, you would dress in crimson satin, and I would escort you to a smoky restaurant where beautiful black women sing the blues after midnight," he said. "I would caress the back of your neck, and your thigh beneath the table where no one could see. We would drink red wine, and I could smoke as much as I wished." He unwrapped the baklava. "You would be the most beautiful woman in the room, _milaya_. I need a spoon."

"You are truly insane." Victoria went to the kitchen, found a spoon. "What is the book, and why did you bring it?"

"A new American novel, not something I would leave in my present accommodations," Ivan said with a grin. "I read to improve my language skills, and also because I am curious. I thought we could read to each other, for a while. It is a pleasure to listen to the sound of your voice." He took the spoon from her hand and dipped a corner out of the baklava. "Try this."

The pastry crackled and dissolved in her mouth, drenched with honey, bolstered by the mellow heartiness of nutmeats. Victoria licked her lips, and found his eyes on her. "I wonder if I could make this."

His thumb moved over her mouth, flicking a crumb away. "I will read first." Ivan filled their glasses with vodka.

" _All of this happened, more or less. The war parts, anyway, are pretty much true._ "

Victoria listened to the first words, the first pages. She watched Ivan's forehead crease as he made sense what he read.

" _You know what I say to people when I hear they're writing anti-war books? . . . I say, 'Why don't you write an anti-_ glacier _book instead?_ '" Ivan paused. " _What he meant, of course, was that there would always be wars, that they were as easy to stop as glaciers . . ._ "

Ivan broke off and looked up with a wry smile. "Nine pages in, and I have been shot twice."

"Keep reading." Victoria stole a quick bite of baklava, then lifted a bite to Ivan's mouth.

He continued to read slowly, pausing often. " _People aren't supposed to look back. I'm certainly not going to do it anymore . . ._ "

 

"Is very strange story."

Victoria lay on top of Ivan, still damp from their time in the shower. Her turn at reading had ended on page 35, shortly after the word _motherfucker_ had derailed Ivan's interest in literature. Standing in the bathtub, with a slow mist of warm water cascading over their bodies, he had taken her without needing to use one of his vast store of condoms, without bothering to remove the satin nightshirt.

"He is a very strange author."

"I wonder . . . " Ivan's voice was unusually tentative.

Victoria rolled off his chest and stole an extra pillow to push under her head. "What?"

"Our jobs. Our lives. Tell me one thing about yourself that is true, important."

He knew what he was asking. Honest, personal pieces of her life could be used by an enemy. "My mother is dead. My father is senile, happy, and doesn't recognize me. I like to bake, pastries and desserts."

"And your job?"

"Is a job." Victoria bit her lip. "My country appreciates the fact I am good at what I do. What about you?"

"My people are capable of great things." Ivan turned onto his side and stole back one of the pillows. "I hope my country can build the best road into the future. When I speak with the English, this is not a sentiment I hear from them; they seem to look to the past more than the future. And the Americans," Ivan shook his head, "everything they accomplish is done through sheer self-interest and unchecked imagination. If these traits create a better country, they point and say "look what we have done!" as though it were all according to some plan."

"The Americans are unpredictable," she agreed.

"Da. And dangerous. Turn over. Let me hold you." He waited while she wrestled with the pillow, then curled her body back against him. "My mother's mother took care of me when I was young. She is gone now. I love the country more than the city. There is something I must do tomorrow night, I will not see you."

Victoria reached down to find a blanket. The air around them felt cool compared to the damp heat between their bodies. Autumn would turn to winter, soon enough.

"Monday you will go to market. Listen and remember. You must purchase these items . . ."

He was asleep almost immediately after making her repeat the list. Victoria lay in his arms and wondered why she needed to buy so many eggs, and a springform pan.

 

**SUNDAY, SEPT. 13**

Rose looked as though the cucumbers had helped. Her face and complexion were returning to normal, if her manner was still withdrawn and hostile. She had done no further packing since Victoria's departure the previous afternoon.

"I took pills and went to bed." She sat on the couch, staring at the pile of boxes.

"You look much improved. We will work until five today." Victoria started excavating the book shelves. "At that time, anything left unpacked in this room will be bagged for the dustbin."

"Bully bitch." Rose heaved herself off the couch and went to work.

 

It seemed very empty and quiet in the apartment when she returned. Victoria spent the early evening cleaning, vacuuming and polishing. She searched all the places that might harbor dark red filaments of hair, polished any surface he might have touched. She washed her underwear in the bathroom sink.

She didn't expect a knock on her door, but she fell asleep on the couch, waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

**MONDAY, SEPT. 14**

Rose left for work at 8:15 sharp. Her makeup was heavier than usual, but from a distance she looked presentable.

"I'll wait upstairs until the packed boxes are picked up," Victoria said, after Rose had disappeared. "I'll find a cab back."

"Then I should collect you again at 4:30?" Herbert nodded. "You're no trouble, Miss Brown. I'll wait, if you wish."

"No thank you, Herbert."

She lacked a key, but the lock was no trouble. Victoria stood in the bare living room and looked around approvingly. Only the large pieces of furniture remained unboxed. Most of the kitchen was empty as well. A few kitchen utensils, and food remained.

The rest of the apartment was unexplored territory. The bathroom was off a hallway that led to the bedroom. It was cluttered, with underwear hanging from the shower rod. There were two additional rooms at the end of the hallway, the bedroom and a small studio with a large skylight.

The watercolors in the living room had been Rose's own, Victoria realized, examining the paintings in the crowded space. There were more books here, and art supplies.

The bedroom was in upheaval. Clothing lay strewn on bed, chairs and floor. Various ornamental storage boxes tumbled out of the large closet. Three half-filled suitcases lay on the unmade bed.

Well, at least Rose had done something on her own, Victoria thought. Tonight they could work on the studio.

She had just returned to the living room when the movers knocked on the door. With the last of the packed boxes gone, the empty shelves looked skeletal, the room seemed much larger. Life in transition. For some reason the sight made Victoria uneasily aware of the possibility of transition in her own life. What had it said in the novel?

_All moments, past, present, and future, always have existed, always will exist. It is just an illusion . . . that one moment follows another. . ._

Close your eyes, turn toward the past _or_ future, and there would be someone living in these rooms.

If she closed her eyes and concentrated, she could smell caviar and vodka, return to Paris and hear him say, _Will you come to bed with me?_

She could imagine skipping forward to the moment when she was forced to look at his lifeless body, then flinging herself backward to an apartment in New York where she stood in his arms, dancing to radio tunes.

Victoria rubbed her forehead, locking Rose's apartment door as she stepped into the hallway. She had a shopping list to fill.

 

SInce she had the supplies, and the time, Victoria spent the afternoon baking shortbread and an American spice drop cookie recipe she found in a magazine. When she left the apartment to meet Herbert, she gave Fred a bag of cookies, and left one for Ben. Herbert got a bag for himself, and one to take back to the embassy.

"May I eat one now? That's a good smell, Miss Brown."

"Go ahead." Victoria had one last bag for Rose. "The holidays are coming. I'm always looking for a new recipe, or two. Tell me what you think of those spice drops."

"Good," Herbert said, after he'd sampled three. "You could add raisins or nuts."

"Or both. Here we are. Pick me up at 9 o'clock."

 

Rose tried to turn her nose up at the shortbread, and failed. She grudgingly made a pot of tea and offered Victoria tinned soup.

"I'll start on the studio. Join me after you're done eating." It gave her a second of satisfaction to see the shock on Rose's face. Just how did Rose think the movers had gotten into her apartment that morning? "Your paintings are lovely."

"Snooping bully bitch" followed Victoria as she left the kitchen.

They worked until most of the studio was carefully packed in boxes.

"Tomorrow night we'll start on your bedroom and closets," Victoria said as she left. "You might start sorting the clothing."

 

"Great cookies, Miss Brown." Ben held the door for her, grinning from ear to ear. "They're already gone."

Small confections brought small moments of content, Victoria thought as she stepped into the spice scented apartment. What was so satisfying about a freshly baked biscuit? The taste in and of itself, or the long string of memories stretching back to the first time a young creature realized putting something more substantial than milk into the mouth resulted in a sensation of texture, taste, pleasure.

It was only a few minutes later that the knock came, before she had time to shower, before she had time to watch the clock and wait. It was too early, Victoria thought. Something was wrong.

"It would be wiser . . ."

It was a reenactment of the first time he had come through the door. When he wasn't kissing her, he spoke rapidly, urgently in Russian.

"Ivan." She held her fingers over his mouth. "What is it?"

"Kuznetsov. He has slipped his escort." He took her hand and led to her to the couch. "It appears he may have had help from American friends who thought to help a poor Russian escape the repression his wife and country impose upon his _freedom_."

"I think that was the first truly cynical thing I have ever heard you say." She evaluated his body language. He was wearing the coverall, but had not brought the duffel. The outline of a shoulder holster had pressed against her as he kissed her, and there would be another gun at his ankle. He was focused and extremely unhappy. "Americans -- official, or civilian?"

"We believe civilian. It has only been a few hours. This country --" He rolled his eyes. "Very difficult for me to work efficiently here. When we find him, and we _will_ find him, they may want me to personally arrange for immediate transport back to Moscow."

Victoria had known, as soon as he came through the door. She tried to dissociate, to hold the calm she always found when working, when viewing a target. "I understand. You had best go quickly, then."

"You have been baking." Ivan's fingers traced her mouth. "I intended to share a family recipe with you. Now, I do not know if there will be time to do so. _Ya teybya lyublyu._ My Victoria. I must go."

Her calm evaporated as he kissed her by the door. Victoria saw the blue of his eyes turn dark as he finally held her at arm's length. The most primal, overwhelming imperative she had ever experienced demanded she rip the clothing from his body and, if necessary, drag him to her bed. Somehow she managed to take a step away. "Goodbye, Ivan."

His lips compressed. He shook his head, and slipped through barely open door into the hallway.

 

**TUESDAY, SEPT. 15**

Victoria kept her seat in the car until her watch said 8:20. "She's late leaving. I'll check on her," she said to Herbert.

There was no response to her knock. Victoria picked the lock in seconds, went directly to the bedroom. The suitcases were gone. Not just Kuznetsov, then. Rose was with him. When she returned to the living room, Ivan stood just inside the entry.

"They have car. We thought they would go to Canada, but they are at private home outside city. Will you come with me, and take responsibility for her?"

"Yes." Victoria went to Rose's phone and dialed from memory. "Mr. Giles? Victoria Brown. Could you get me the directory number for Miss Smythe's employer? I will need to call and let him know she is unable to work today." She waited, holding Ivan's gaze.

Barry Giles' voice was flat as he read her the number. "Do you know where she is?"

"Thank you. Miss Smythe's friend is with her right now. I'll be leaving the city for a while, with the gentleman I met at the coffee shop."

"Have a pleasant afternoon. Drop by the embassy when you can."

Victoria briefly replaced the receiver, then dialed Rose's work number. "Hello? This is Miss Brown phoning for Miss Smythe. I'm not sure who to speak with. Miss Smythe developed an abscessed tooth in the night. She's sedated right now. If you could pass the message along, I'll have her phone later, when she's feeling better."

"Send your driver away." Ivan was moving before she took her hand away from the phone. "You can use their car for return trip."

Herbert gave her a long look when she told him to return to the consulate. Victoria was sure he had seen Ivan leave the building in front of her. She waited as he pulled the car into traffic and disappeared.

"Come." Ivan had an inconspicuous, dark sedan. "Rental," he said as she got into the front seat, "not one of ours."

Probably without intrusive devices, Victoria interpreted, but nothing was certain. "What can you tell me?"

They moved smoothly, quickly through the traffic. Ivan was an aggressive driver, at home in the rude crush of other aggressive drivers. "I will know more when we find him. He may have thought to take her to Paris from Canada. There is no approved political reason for his actions."

"So, personal then."

"He is not thinking with head." Ivan held his hand down on the car's horn, and missed a taxicab by less than an inch. "Something must have changed once they left city. It was foolish to go to this house unless he wished to be rapidly reacquired."

Victoria remembered Rose's response to learning Kuznetsov was married. "She's giving him a difficult time of it," she said slowly. "He tells her of a way they can be together. She can't help herself, she has to go. They leave the city together. But she also can't help confronting him about his wife. Kuznetsov begins to wonder if he made a mistake."

"Leaving her at this house would be closer than Canada, and safer than returning the the city," Ivan said. "What you say seems likely."

"Are you married?" As soon as she asked, Victoria wanted to shoot her own tongue. "Never mind."

"No. Never." He gave her an intense, sideways glance that held more than a trace of laughter. "Will you kill him, and save me the trouble again?"

"Do you want me to?" Victoria watched his hands as he drove. "What is best outcome for this situation, from your point of view?"

"You do not want my point of view. My people expect him to return home, alive."

"Then I cannot shoot him," Victoria said, feeling real regret. "How long before we get to the house?"

"Perhaps two hours. It seems unlikely we will have additional time together."

She turned her head and looked away from him, out the window at the rapidly passing landscape. "The time we had was good."

"It was not enough, _milaya_." He said the words very quietly. "We have not finished reading the book. I wished to show you how to bake Russian pastry."

"Tell me now," she said. "I'll remember."

"Put your hand in my jacket pocket. Find cigarettes. Light one for me." Ivan rolled his window down enough to let in a rush of fresh air, and pulled out the car's ash tray.

Victoria found the cigarettes and a plain silver lighter. She lit a cigarette and passed it to him.

" _Spasibo_. We start with crust so it can chill, overnight is good."

They drove fast through the American countryside. Victoria mixed the crust in her mind as Ivan described the steps in the recipe. "What should the oven temperature be?" she asked, when he failed to include a crucial element in preparation.

"I'm not sure," he said, apologetically. "I did not observe."

"You've watched this being prepared, but never made the recipe yourself?" Victoria ran over the exact measurements for the ingredients. He must have a remarkable memory.

"Da. Layers bake for no more than ten minutes, come out --" he waved a hand.

"Evenly browned, golden in color?" She couldn't help laughing at the incongruity of being taught a recipe by someone who had never baked. "I can manage that."

From crust to custard to tort assembly, Ivan talked and smoked, moving without pause from pastry to his impressions of New York. Victoria listened to his voice as much as his words, occasionally lighting cigarettes for him. When he left the paved road and turned onto a gravel driveway that led through solid walls of trees, Victoria checked her watch and found, to her surprise, nearly two hours had passed.

"We're close?"

"We are here."

A two storey red brick house sat at the end of the driveway, with a green sedan parked on the grass near the front door. Victoria took the gun from her purse, her eyes sweeping the tree line around the house. She followed close to Ivan, but focused on the surrounding landscape until he opened the front door and stepped through.

Rose sat in the middle of the floor, blood on her cheek, sweater and hands. She looked up dully and held her fingers out toward Victoria.

"I've killed him. Are you going to kill me?"

"Not her blood then." Ivan moved past Rose toward a set of double doors that bore a dramatically clear bloody handprint.

"You're not hurt?" Victoria studied her face and eyes. The woman looked numbly shocked, but physically intact. "I did warn you not to see him again."

She left Rose and followed the droplets of blood. Ivan was next to a man's body on the floor of a spacious study.

"Not dead. Shot went through the shoulder, high." Ivan was ripping away the young man's shirt. "Moderate blood loss. Clean her up, take her away. Check his pockets for keys."

Victoria knelt beside him, quickly finding a set of keys. "Amazing luck. Of all the places she could have shot him." She glanced around and saw the gun laying nearby. "His own gun?"

Ivan laughed. "Yes, his own gun. Amazing luck. I will stop bleeding, then bring him back to city for further care."

She understood. They wouldn't be able to transport Kuznetsov immediately.

It took her a few minutes to wash the blood from Rose's hands and face, and a few more to seat her in the green sedan. Victoria drove away from the house without looking in the rear view mirror.

 

**WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 16**

"The doctor sedated her, then left. I slept at her apartment last night, and Herbert dropped a nurse off this morning." Victoria had showered, but was still wearing the clothing that carried faint spots of Kuznetsov's blood.

"We've changed your reservations to Monday, the 21st," Barry Giles said. "Our doctor phoned Miss Smythe's employer and explained that, due to the severity of her infection, she wouldn't be able to finish her period of separation. You will want to phone London now?"

"Yes."

When M's voice answered on the other end of the line, Victoria gritted her teeth and sat up straight. She had never been required to give a summarized phone report directly to him.

"Briefly, Miss Winslow. I understand the young man is still alive?"

"When we left him, yes." Victoria recited the bare bones of the incident. "Barring unexpected complications, he should live."

"Why did she shoot him?"

"It would take a psychologist."

"Miss Winslow."

"Sorry, sir. Miss Smythe told me Kuznetsov promised he would take her to Paris, set her up with a place to live, and visit her when he could. When Smythe confronted him about his married state, and made demands, Kuznetsov said he respected her scruples, and it had been a pleasure knowing her. Smythe was particularly offended by this sentiment. Kuznetsov had, unfortunately, let her know about the gun he was carrying. Miss Smythe decided to end their conversation by using the gun."

There was a short silence from M, then an explosive breath. "Well, at least she won't be mooning around, nursing a sense of aggrieved injustice," M said. "Mr. Giles will need to know the whereabouts of the safe house, and anything Simanov might have said while you were with him. Can you explain why the Russians would care about Miss Smythe's welfare?"

"They didn't care, sir. Simanov implied that Kuznetsov has important family ties, which I believe Mr. Giles has confirmed. They didn't want him associated with any unsavory incident here. Smythe's safe extraction and return was in their best interest."

"So they could use Kuznetsov again in America, in the future? Perhaps. I look forward to reading your full report on this untidy affair, Miss Winslow." M rang off abruptly.

"You'll look at maps with me now, Miss Brown?" Barry Giles was waiting outside the office that contained the secure phone line. "I have tea as well."

He seemed to be a nice man, Victoria thought as she traced the route away from the city for him. His propensity to provide tea was certainly well appreciated. His questions mirrored those M had asked. When they finished he rolled the maps up, and tucked notes into a folder.

"We didn't know about that house. They won't thank Kuznetsov for exposing it. I've arranged for the nurse to stay with Miss Smythe tonight. I'll have Herbert pick you up at the usual time in the morning."

 

The faintest smell of spice lingered in the air of the apartment. Victoria stripped off her dirty clothing and showered again.

Someone had moved the toiletries on her vanity.

It was only 4 o'clock. Victoria turned the radio on low, and lay on the couch. Would Ivan find out if she had been placed under surveillance? Her things had been disarranged. No one would think it unusual if she searched, and she had nothing else to do.

She spent the next three hours painstakingly conducting an exercise that would have gotten her top marks from her instructors. By the time she finished, Victoria was as sure as she could be that while her belongings had been searched, there were no bugs in the apartment.

7 o'clock.

Victoria stared at the time with a growing impatience alien to her character. Time had never been a problem for her before. She could wait, patiently, for hours without moving, nearly without breathing.

She had learned as a child to put herself into a kind of trance that merely recorded what was going on around her, without reacting to, or interacting with, those events. This talent, first developed to deal with her mother's insane love of spiritualist gatherings that Victoria had been forced to attend with her, and later to deal with her mother's lingering death from cancer, had served her well in the service. Not only had Victoria observed a wide variety of con artists at work, but she could wait with the instinctual, unimaginative patience of a spider who senses the exact moment to strike its prey.

There had been a few lovers in her life. Victoria had never watched the clock for any one of them, or felt their absence once they were gone. Civilians created complications, and it wasn't as though she could explain her job entailed more than steno services. Long-term relationships between agents were viewed as problematic, even when their areas of expertise didn't overlap. A night or two, a few weeks at most would be overlooked, then a female agent might very well find herself reassigned.

She knew her fellow agents thought her cold, but since cold was common, and she was also congenial and nonaggressive in company, she was generally accepted. But never loved. And love was not something Victoria had missed.

But here she was, watching the clock.

Victoria increased the volume on the radio. She poured herself a glass of wine, then sat reading women's magazines at the kitchen table. When the knock on her door came at 9:30, she felt a jolt of exhilaration and relief.

She put her finger to her lips when Ivan stepped inside, and pulled his head close to hers. "Searched," she whispered. "Don't think they left anything."

"I trust your skills." He took her into his arms and simply held her. "I cannot stay. There is continuing problem with Kuznetsov."

"How long ---" Victoria broke off as the phone rang. She picked up the receiver before the third ring. "Hello?"

"Miss Brown? James Bond here."

He was using her cover name, Victoria noted. Unsure of the phone connection, or just naturally cautious. For a moment she wondered why Bond continued to use cover names when _he_ traveled. Surely there was no place left on the globe where the officials and security forces in charge didn't recognize who and what Bond represented. "Commander Bond. You're back in New York?"

"Yes. I'm hoping you will have dinner with me tomorrow. And please, call me James." His voice was smooth, easy and intimate. "I'll pick you up at 9:00 then?"

"Dinner at 9:00? That would be lovely." Victoria watched Ivan as she spoke. He stared back, grave and unrevealing. "Good evening, James."

Ivan gestured toward the couch. He turned the radio up a bit louder, then sat next to her.

Victoria leaned into him, her mouth on his jaw, following the line between beard and cheek. "What is your problem?"

"The woman I love is going to have dinner with the most notorious . . . "

"No." She found herself laughing at the disgust in his voice. "With Kuznetsov."

"Ah. He has criminal connections here and at home which have surfaced. He has helped facilitate the sale of goods and services." Ivan pulled her onto his lap. "He lost a lot of blood. It will be at least a week before we can move him safely. In the interim, I must listen to diatribes and disclaimers and conflicting instructions from both sides of world."

She lay her head on his shoulder. The scent of tobacco and petrol filled her lungs. "My flight home has been changed to Monday."

"I know." His arms tightened. He took one of her hands and pressed it against his lips. "I want you. I must go now."

He hugged her again, briefly, but did not kiss her as he left. Victoria stood with her back against the door, and seriously considered finding and properly shooting Kuznetsov.

 

**THURSDAY, SEPT. 17**

Rose was still in bed, although the nurse said she had received no sedatives since the previous evening.

"Doctor left a prescription. He said not to use it unless she went into hysterics." The nurse left with an air of one who had completed a difficult job.

Victoria found the prescription on the kitchen table. She put it in her purse, next to the gun, then tucked the purse under the couch.

"Time to get up and shower. I'll make tea. We have to pack your bedroom today."

Rose waved a hand, feebly. "Go away. I don't care if you shoot me. My head hurts, and I'm not getting up."

This was not a woman with whom she needed to waste time arguing, Victoria thought, surprised by how much she had come to dislike Rose. She went to the kitchen and found a cleaning bucket under the sink. She filled it with cold water and returned to the bedroom.

"Your survival instincts need to be improved." Victoria emptied the bucket over her head.

Rose heaved herself erect, water streaming over her head and shoulders. "BITCH! You bloody bitch!"

"I could have shot you. Others might. Shower. Get dressed. We have work to do." Victoria left her and returned to the kitchen.

It was a long day. When Victoria left at 6:30, she estimated two-thirds of the closet and bedroom had been sorted and packed.

 

Herbert gave her a look when she got into the car. "Heard you have a dinner date tonight. Cutting it close, Miss Brown?"

"It doesn't take me much time to get ready." She grinned at his reflection in the rear view mirror. "I know about Commander Bond, Herbert."

"Yes. Well," he said repressively. "Not my place, I'm sure."

"You don't need to fear for my virtue. Just pick me up in the morning, 8:15 as usual."

He flushed a bit, but looked relieved. "Of course, Miss Brown. I hope you have a lovely evening. You haven't had much chance to get out."

"I'm working, Herbert, not on vacation." And dinner with James Bond was just another part of the job, Victoria told herself.

She showered, tucking her damp hair behind her ears so it would dry naturally, with a bit of wave. Her makeup was simple, a little more eyeshadow than she usually wore. Her lipstick would be the most dramatic, a shade to match the dress she had purchased at Macy's.

Victoria unzipped the garment bag and draped the dress on the bed. It was cocktail length, scarlet silk with cap sleeves, slightly scooped neck, and a slit in the rear that opened to mid-back. She had bought it to wear for Ivan. It required a new bra as well, a tight strapless garment that wouldn't show in the back.

The phone rang at 8:59. "Miss Brown, there's a gentleman here to pick you up."

"Thank you, Fred. I'll be right down." Victoria gathered her black lace wrap and purse. The purse was slightly too large for the ensemble, but she had decided the Walther was definitely going to dinner with her.

It turned out to be a pleasant evening.

James Bond was surprisingly good company. Victoria found she quite liked watching him, and the effect he had on the people around him. It was interesting to observe the number of men who were immediately aware, and wary, of him. There was the instinctive response to protect girlfriend, mistress or wife from the predatory male, but there was also a handful other other predators around the watering hole that marked his presence with watchful eyes.

Women seemed to have a kind of echo location for his presence; every female head turned in their direction when they entered the restaurant dining room. Victoria thought she had never been evaluated by as many women in one place at one time.

Over dinner they talked about people they both knew in London, and exchanged politely competitive tales of prowess on the shooting range. He would have queried London about her, and it didn't bother her. She got him talking about his love of fast cars, and caught an unguarded glimpse of the fearless adventurer beneath the smooth character he wore like a well-tailored suit.

Victoria saw the moment, midway through dinner, when he understood how their evening would end.

"I was going to suggest dancing, but perhaps you might like to hear some of New York's live music? What kind of music do you like?" he asked after dinner.

Blues, she thought. "Jazz."

They sat in a dark, smoky club for another two hours, listening to superb music. When Victoria began to yawn uncontrollably, he led her from the club.

"You're tired, and I understand you still have work to do with Miss Smythe tomorrow." He opened the limousine door for her.

"I do. She's been a challenge to work with. Thank you for dinner, and the music. You're not a bad companion, when you're not on the prowl." Victoria laughed at the expression on his face.

"My dear girl." Bond raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. "Perhaps we might get together on one of the ranges, when I'm in London."

"I would enjoy that."

He got out of the limousine when they pulled up in front of the apartment building, and opened her door. He brushed a kiss on each side of her face. "I hope to see you in London, Victoria." He waved at Fred, then stood and waited until she passed through the entry door.

News of the dinner would reach London long before she did, Victoria knew with amusement. The women in the offices would be wild for details. They would be so disappointed.

When she opened the apartment door a white envelope lay squarely in the doorway. Her first thought was _Ivan?_ Her second thought was _No._ But between those moments she reached for the envelope.

Her third thought, as she found herself brutally pinned to the floor with a knee in her back, a dark cloth bag smelling of garlic and halitosis placed over her head, her wrists hurriedly bound with some kind of tape, was _All that bloody training, and at the end of the day I act like a bleating civilian._

Someone picked her up and threw her over his shoulder with a grunt. There were stairs instead of lifts, and the echoing quality of an underground space. She was dumped onto a car seat.

Victoria took shallow breaths and listened. There were two men in the car with her. American, New Yorkers from the brief words that passed between them. It made her feel immensely better to know it wasn't the Russians. But why? Victoria lay quietly, minutely working her hands against the tape. She wondered if they had picked up her purse.

It wasn't a long ride, perhaps half an hour. She was once again treated like a sack of potatoes, then placed, ungently on a hard seat. She felt the heat and saw the light even before the hood was removed.

When the darkness of the hood lifted and the spotlight hit her full on, she could see an oil stained concrete floor, but little more of her surroundings. A tall figure moved quickly away from her toward the light. Victoria kept her eyes half lidded, focused downward to keep herself from being blinded.

Her dress had been ripped up one side, leaving her leg exposed to the hip. Victoria stared at shreds of her new pantyhose. They had left her legs free. It was amateur night at the O.K. Corral she thought, bitterly including herself in the cast.

"Where is Aleksei?" A man's voice behind the light, American with another trace of accent. Italian? "Where have they moved Aleksei?"

"I have no idea. Ask the Russians." Victoria let her eyes brush the edges of the impenetrable brilliance. Three of them? She could make out the silhouette of a low table or bench. "I'm here to take the woman home, nothing more."

"She says she shot him."

Rose. They had spoken with Rose.

Victoria straightened her shoulders, bringing her head up a little more. "If you've spoken with the woman, you know we left Aleksei with the Russians after she shot him."

"Simanov was at your apartment building last night, for approximately fifteen minutes. Why was he there?"

Eventually, you were always caught out. "It wasn't business. He's my lover."

"She's lying." The voice was quick, low, with a Russian accent. "They do not use Simanov for such entrapments. And Simanov would never work for the English, so she must be a double agent."

"You must admit, fifteen minutes hardly seems long enough to devote to a lovely thing like you," the American said. "You need to understand, Miss Brown. I'm a businessman. Alexsei Kuznetsov is my property. I want him back. You say you don't know where he is. We can continue this discussion with the addition of physically painful punctuation to the questions, or I can send Simanov a message we have you, and suggest a trade. That might be interesting. An MI6 double agent, possibly his lover, in exchange for a Russian criminal. Or even better, both options simultaneously."

There was a moment of low, indistinct conversation from behind the light.

Victoria rolled her eyes. Her hands had loosened further in the tape, she thought one good wrench might release them. If they were going to start hurting her someone would have to get closer. Probably the Russian. The Americans hadn't planned to kill her, since they didn't want her to be able to identify them later. But that could change.

It was the Russian. He was short, stout and well dressed, a man who would look and move naturally in business circles. He studied her. "You have beautiful legs." He reached into his pocket, found a cigarette and lighter.

He was wearing a shoulder holster, and for a moment she could see the butt of the gun. Victoria deliberately relaxed her muscles. He would bend over her . . .

"This will leave a very small scar." He drew on the cigarette until it glowed red. "Have you ever been burned? The pain is usually disproportionate to the size of the injury, and the smell . . . " he shook his head in mock sorrow. "Unpleasant, to smell your own flesh cooking. I will begin on your thigh."

"I can't tell you what I don't know," she said crossly. "Although I'm sure it's pointless, I can tell you if you don't immediately let me go and return me to my apartment, you will all die."

Holding the cigarette between his teeth, he put one of his feet down, hard, on her foot and clamped his hand on her knee. He ripped the dress further as he exposed her thigh. "No kicking, Miss Brown. You English. Always unintentionally so humorous."

Victoria forced herself to watch his hand as the shock of pain momentarily overloaded her nerves and made her leg try to jerk away from his grasp. He was right. The pain did seem disproportionate.

"I found it difficult to believe you were MI6, but you have very good control of yourself. Not a screamer? There are places on your body with even more sensitive skin, hidden places only a lover might ever see." He brought the cigarette down again, next to the first burn.

There was a clatter of noise from behind the light.

" _Shto?_ " The man straightened, shading his eyes with his hand. He tossed the cigarette to the floor and put his hand inside his jacket.

"Well. Finally." Victoria wrenched her hands against the tape. She heard a combination _whistle thud_ of sound as she kicked back in the chair and rolled free. She did not escape the warm spatter of various fluids.

Ivan stepped past the spotlight. For a moment, Victoria wondered if it was just someone who looked amazingly like Ivan, but he offered his hand and pulled her from the floor.

"A pity about the dress," he said. He was wearing gloves. The Beretta had a silencer, Victoria saw as he put an additional bullet into the dead man near her feet.

"Did you touch anything?" Another body lay across the table on the other side of the spotlight. Ivan left the Beretta on the table near the body.  
"No. Except the tape."

"Get it." He handed her a scrap of rag. "And move the chair against the wall."

Victoria moved the chair, keeping the rag between her fingers and the wood. She balled up the crumpled loops of tape and wrapped the rag around the tape.

"Give it to me. I will burn it." Ivan was removing his coverall. "Put this on."

"My purse. Did they bring my purse?" She stepped into the coverall, still warm from his body. "I would very much like to have my gun."

He laughed, his face relaxing a bit. "Da. Over there." He pointed at a toolbench. "We go now."

"There is a third man. I believe they were sending him to you, with a message." Victoria followed him through the dimly lighted garage, past racks of auto parts and boxes. He had a different gun now, without a silencer.

"I intercepted their message." Ivan stepped over the body near the exit door.

It was chilly outside, and dark. Ivan led her to a motorbike parked deep in shadow. Victoria wrapped her arms around him and rested her cheek against his back. It _was_ chilly, especially when moving at high speeds through open air. At the rear of her apartment building he pulled the motorbike between two large dustbins. Reaching behind one bin he produced a battered length of oilcloth, which went over the motorbike.

"So this is how you visit me." Victoria opened her purse. They had dropped both her key and the bit of paper bait inside. "I can take it from here, if you need to go."

Ivan looked up from picking the lock on the single-door service entrance. "You need to be debriefed," he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I cannot tell you how long I have waited to use that phrase with you. I have been reading something the Americans call _Mad Magazine._ American humor is troubling, but interesting."

"I suspect the same could be said for English and Russian humor." Victoria followed him quickly, silently up the stairway. The building was quiet around them, and they made it through her front door without sight or sound of another person.

Ivan took her into his arms and leaned back against the door. "I saw one of them last night, as I left. I followed him after he finished following me. The man who hurt you was criminal, of past interest to my people. The others, American criminals."

"The one in charge said Kuznetsov was his property. Missing money or goods between them?"

"Probably. Aleksei has fever, infection. We have not thoroughly explored his misdeeds with him." He brushed something from her cheek. "I should probably take your dress as well, to burn. You looked very beautiful tonight."

"I let them take me. I was stupid, inept. I was distracted." Victoria tried to step away from him. "They knew you had been here. They thought I was a double agent. I told them you were my lover, they didn't believe me."

"They were the stupid ones. But I understand." He kissed her, a soft undemanding touch. "You have given me these nights, and now there are only four left. And I must waste yet another cleaning up after Kuznetsov. I should have let you shoot him, _milaya._ "

"I can't tell my people about what happened tonight."

"No. The Americans will believe it is a criminal matter, and not investigate deeply. Now, give me the coverall, and your dress, and I must go."

Victoria stepped back from him and unzipped the coverall. She kicked off her shoes, which were much the worse for the evening, and stepped out of the garment. He took it from her, watching as she pulled the dress over her head.

"Your leg is bruised. Your thigh . . ." Only the smallest ring of blue remained around the pupils of his eyes as he looked at her body. "I would like to kill him again."

"Bruises fade. Burns will heal." Victoria pushed a strand of stiff hair away from her face and grimaced. "Blood and brains wash down the drain."

Ivan took the dress from her hand and dropped it on the coverall. He kissed her until she had to pull back to breathe.

"I have already used every bit of discipline and willpower I possess, tonight," she said, curling her fingers around the waistband of his trousers. "You have two choices . . ."

She saw the memory of Paris fill his eyes.

"Tomorrow." He detached her hand gently and bent to pick up the clothing. "I thought I would envy Commander Bond his evening with you, but he has never been in your bed. I am the one to be envied."

Victoria stared at the door for several minutes after he left. When she finally stood in front of the mirror in the bedroom, she began to smile, then to laugh. Her hair was wild, spiked and colored brownish red in places. Her eyes were ringed with smudged make up, but Victoria was pleased to note the lipstick had been very good quality and had weathered both abduction and kisses unscathed. Her bra had slipped, pushing her breasts mostly out of the cups. One nipple seemed to wink at her. Her tights hung in ladders and holes, and the burns glared from her thigh like brands.

Taken in total, Victoria rather thought she looked like a fugitive from a late night cabaret raid.

As she stood under the shower, Victoria recalled her conversation with James Bond when they first met in the embassy. What had he said? _New York has nearly everything._ She wondered if he had any idea how right he was.

Upon further reflection, as she put salve on her leg, Victoria decided he probably did.

 

**FRIDAY, SEPT. 18**

Rose had completely transformed overnight.

Packed boxes waited in the living room.

"There's tea, if you'd like." Rose was dressed, pale, but businesslike. "There's still a bit in the bedroom and studio. I called Mr. Giles this morning, and he's sending a few more boxes. I'd like to finish this afternoon. They will let me stay at the embassy until the flight leaves."

"I applaud your industry." Victoria narrowed her eyes and saw the movement of discomfort Rose made. "Did something happen yesterday, after I left?"

"Two American policemen." Rose's eyes refused to make contact. "They asked me questions about Alex."

"What did you tell them?"

"That I shot him," Rose said in a rush. "But he was still alive. They said I wouldn't have to go to jail, as long as they could find him. Do you know where he is?"

"Do you suppose you'd still be here if they intended to put you in jail?"

"It's America," Rose wailed. "They shoot people here all the time, and never go to jail."

"Calm down. You were very smart to call Mr. Giles. The embassy can help you with any other American policemen who come calling."

They finished the last of the packing before 3 o'clock. Herbert was waiting for them when they came down with a few pieces of Rose's luggage. It was a silent drive to the consulate, Herbert frequently checking them in the mirror. Rose didn't speak, and seemed uncomfortable sitting near Victoria.

When Rose saw Barry Giles, she burst into tears. "Don't let them take me to jail!"

Victoria backed from the room, and returned outside to wait with Herbert. The afternoon was cloudy, but pleasant, and Herbert was leaning against the building smoking a pipe.

"Not your usual thing, Miss Brown? Although you've got a lot of patience." He blew smoke into the air and watched it dissipate.

"Not at all my usual thing," Victoria said with conviction.

"She's safety stowed now, would you like to drive around a bit this evening?"

"I'd love to say yes, but I have a slight headache. Tomorrow afternoon I would like to visit a bookstore, and I'm going to need another suitcase for the flight out."

 

Her discussion with Barry Giles was short. He was already visibly stressed by Rose. The embassy was following up on Rose's "police" interview, but he doubted the legitimacy of the questioning. He assured her Herbert would be available for both Saturday and Sunday. The flight would be leaving at 11 o'clock on Monday, so it might be wise to plan for an 8 o'clock pickup at the apartment. Victoria kept saying _thank you, of course_ until he was called away.

The first thing Victoria did when she got to the apartment was to exchange her trousers for a pair of palazzo pants, one of her Macy's purchases. Her leg had burned and itched during the day. The silky, loose fabric of the lounge wear was an immediate improvement. She made scrambled eggs and toast, and ate sitting in the late afternoon sunshine on the couch. She considered attempting to make the tort, but decided it would be imprudent to produce a Russian dessert after recent events. The custard, though. All those eggs didn't need to go to waste.

Cooking kept her calm, grounded, and filled the time. Victoria tested the custard, and was pleased by the taste and texture. She baked a pan of shortbread. She read magazines, then went back to the couch in the last light of the afternoon.

She would miss the little apartment, Victoria thought, realizing she had only thought of her own flat at home once or twice. But then, she never missed home when she was working. Thinking it over, it occurred to her that she had never missed a place or person in her entire life. It was an unwelcome moment of self-revelation.

Burying her mother had been a relief. Her father had never needed her, and was well cared for and happy. She had acquaintances, but no close friends. Victoria knew if she had been a different kind of woman, she would never have been recruited to do the job she did. She was a fundamentally content person who lived her life balanced between the poles of despair and joy, never moving far toward either pole. She had unique, useful skills, and that had always been enough for her.

The light was not completely gone from the sky when he knocked on her door.

"It's too early," she said. "You take too many risks."

"Do i smell custard?" He set his duffel bag by the door.

"It's still setting up. Did you bring vodka? I've missed drinking vodka with you."

He rummaged in the bag, produced a bottle. Victoria took two glasses and her last orange into the living room.

"How is your leg?" he poured vodka into their glasses.

"Annoying." Clean and powerful, the vodka left a trail of warmth to her stomach, then spread to her arms and legs. "We finished packing today. Apparently two policemen questioned her last night, and scared her even more than her own actions did."

"Will you come to bed with me?"

"Yes." Victoria approved the abrupt change of focus.

They undressed side by side. Ivan's face tightened when he saw the bruises that marked her leg from mid-calf to thigh.

"I don't wish to disturb these burns," he said, touching the bruise adjacent to the marks. "You will be on top."

That suited Victoria. She guided him into place with one hand, then watched his face as she finished the movement, ending when he was fully inside her and their bodies touched. His hands skimmed the plane of her stomach, then curved over her hips.

There were no words between them as she moved. He touched her constantly, her breasts, the column of her throat when she bent her head over his to steal a kiss, the muscles along her sides. Victoria felt the pressure build in her belly and tried to slow her movements, but he moved under her, holding her hips and pushing against her. It was too sweet to bring to an end, even such an end as her body promised.

"Let go, _milaya_." He brushed his thumb over one nipple. "Let go."

She let go.

Victoria managed to keep her eyes mostly open, managed to watch as his eyes went wide and lost focus. The clenching release of her orgasm, usually a moment for interior withdrawal, seemed to bring her pleasure, her body, his body, his face, the entire room into almost painful clarity.

"Oh. Ivan." She stared down into his blue eyes as he came back from his own moment of revelation. "This is the last night for us."

Ivan eased her off his body and left the bed. When he returned he had the vodka and the orange. "This bed needs more pillows." He made a pile of pillows next to the nightstand, poured vodka, dug his fingers into the orange and removed the peel. Once settled back on the bed he pulled her against his side and handed her a glass and piece of orange.

"They have arranged for a special plane. I did not have choice of failing to report last night's incident. I said nothing of your involvement, but said they were following me and tried to find out where Kuznetsov was being kept. So now Kuznetsov is full of penicillin, under care of doctor, and I am required to remove him from America tomorrow." He ate a piece of orange. "And also remove myself. Three killings in one night, two of them American, was not appreciated at home."

"How much trouble are you in?"

"Not so much. Americans have said nothing."

They finished the orange between them.

"We have custard and shortbread," Victoria said. "We have time to make love in the shower."

"Tell me you love me."

"I made custard for you." Victoria's chest felt unbearably tight. "You are greedy. It can't matter, it won't mean anything."

"Tell me."

"Ivan Simanov. I love you." The words brought an unexpected peace. The tension in her body disappeared.

"I know."

 

It was 5 o'clock before he made it to the front door, hair still damp from the shower. He held her, unwilling to let go.

" _Ya teybya lyublyu._ My Victoria. I will see you again."

She couldn't say anything, couldn't protest, couldn't agree. It was so much worse than Paris.

"Goodbye, Ivan."

 

**MONDAY, SEPT. 21**

To Rose's obvious relief they weren't seated next to each other. The plane was far from crowded, and Victoria found herself without a seat mate. As America fell away behind them, Victoria made herself comfortable, trying to ease the fabric of her skirt away from her burned leg. Her white cotton shirt, unfashionably long dark skirt and cotton ankle socks had drawn a look of pity from Rose, but the idea of a lengthy trip in trousers had been unthinkable.

Saturday and Sunday had passed quickly. Victoria slept in, watched American morning cartoons and found herself absurdly amused by the adventures of a Moose and Squirrel. An afternoon at Scribner's, more shopping at Macy's, then a drive with Herbert pointing out New York landmarks and sights consumed much of the time. A thorough cleaning of the apartment, and disposal of the kitchen supplies had filled the evenings. Victoria picked up her own copy of the Vonnegut novel, and had nearly finished reading it. It wasn't a long book, but it was an extremely uncomfortable book. She found she was glad they had never continued reading it together.

Under the fantastic tale of moving back and forward through time, and being taken by alien beings for an exhibit in an alien zoo, Victoria thought she perceived the raw, unhappy bewilderment of a man who didn't understand why his own species could do the things they did, make the choices they made.

The world was changing around her. There was no way to predict what her life would look like one, two, five years in the future. Would wars keep coming like glaciers? At least that was a promise of job security, Victoria thought cynically. She had to believe there were good reasons for what her government asked her to do. Would she grow to be an old woman sighting down her gun barrel, returning to an empty flat when each mission was complete? Or would she eventually walk away, find a different life.

 _Everybody has to do exactly what he does_ the character in the book said.

At least she hadn't had to kill him, Victoria thought numbly. She rummaged in her purse and found the Vonnegut book. She opened it to the beginning, to words Ivan had read aloud, a few lines of poetry attributed to Theodore Roethke. Victoria looked at the words, and heard Ivan's voice.

_I feel my fate in what I cannot fear,  
I learn by going where I have to go._

If she ever saw him again, she was sure one of them would die. But sitting in a jet plane, headed back toward England, with the memory of his body, his mouth against her skin fresh in memory, Victoria knew both of them would continue going where they had to go.

Some afternoon, across a crowded foreign railway station, she would see him smoking and reading a newspaper. She would walk to him and ask, _Will you come to bed with me?_

He would smile, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling, and say _Yes._


End file.
